Apparitions in Gold and Scarlet
by lunawannabe
Summary: There are many meanings of fall, some of which Aragorn never even knew he had experienced. A set of ficlets, each a different meaning of fall, each a different "version" of Aragorn. 3rd place September Teitho, "Falls"


_Estel_

Gilraen walks through a forest tinged gold and scarlet, the air cool on her face. It's the time of year when autumn clings to the precipice, taunting you with its lovely breezes only to flit away again. Nevertheless, today is the day of the Autumn Festival in Imladris, but she's in no mood to celebrate. And all she wants is to be alone, but instead a crowd walks with her.

Estel had been getting bored with the songs by the fire, and wanted to "go an avenure wih mowmy," and while Elrond might have let her go unaccompanied he wouldn't let little Estel go alone, so Elladan and Elrohir had also come along- which she was actually thankful for; Estel was like a puppy, curious about and wanting to inspect _everything_. But as a result, what was meant to be a quiet time to mourn had become loud and awkward. And it got even more awkward when Estel dragged Elrohir away, leaving her alone with the grim, silent lord walking beside her.

They walk on a little longer, getting nearer Gilraen's destination, when she stops and clears her throat, saying somewhat nervously, "If you'd like to go back please do, I'll be fine. I'm very near the… where I'm going, anyway."

He stares down at her, waiting a long time before he speaks, which unnerves her even more. She has lived in Imladris for nearly a year, but still hasn't gotten used to how elves act, how they speak, how they always look as if they have seen the world from its beginning, seen things a mere mortal can only guess at. She's come to name a few elves as friends, but Elladan is one she's rarely spoken to.

"By your leave, lady, I would go with you. I remember what happened on this day, and though it cannot possibly mean as much to me as it does to you it still weighs heavily on my heart." Biting her lip, she considers, unsure if she wants company or not. But she figures there is really no way she could say no, and there is a part of her that would like some company, even that of one who is a complete mystery to her.

They continue to walk on in silence, arriving soon at a great oak tree just beginning to lose its first leaves. Small, white flowers carpet the mound at its base. A burial mound.

A year ago today, Arathorn had been brought to her, bearing great wounds. The healers had tried, but in the end could not save him. Soon after, she'd found sanctuary in the Last Homely House. She'd come out here to try and find some connection to her husband, but there is nothing here. Just a mound and gashes in the trunk that spell "_Rim __hennaid__, Arathorn. Cuio mae_."

She had tricked herself into believing that somehow she would feel him here, and the disappointment and grief now brought to the forefront brings her to her knees, shaking with sobs. This is a dead place. There's nothing for her here.

A strong, heavy hand closes over her shoulder, and for an instant her heart stops.

It's Elladan.

Silently, he lowers himself to the ground beside her, and keeps his hand on her back in support.

After a while, she emerges from the safety of her hands, and is greeted by a perfect autumn breeze blowing up from the valley, which she drinks in like the finest wine. It carries the smell of apples and cinnamon and the sound of Estel's laughter as he plays, and burns in her lungs in such a way that gives her strength. It carries the promise of a new season, where plain looking trees will reveal themselves at their most magnificent.

There is no need to think of when the leaves will fall. None at all.

_(Rim hennaid=many thanks/Cuio mae=farewell)_

_i_

_Strider_

It's a horrible thing, to see a brave ranger fall.

You cannot really comprehend it as you fight, but even a mere glimpse of a body falling has a way of latching on in your mind and staying there. It can make you fearless with rage or completely distract you, but you cannot stop to see if they're alright. You must fight on.

But when it's over, you rush to their side, trying to do whatever you can to help, even if it's just ensuring they won't die alone. Some you are too late to help even in that way, but with others you get to, or must, witness their final breaths. Some speak in lament or in brave words and blessing; others simply try to cling to a life that is fleeing them with every heartbeat. Still others you are able to heal, which is always wonderful, but many are simply too badly wounded.

Some you loved like brothers or sons, and their death brings you to the ground, doubled over and gasping for breath, or numb with shock, or screaming in rage and despair, unaware of anything except the pain of it all.

Others you knew only by face, or by a name you rarely used. For these it's a feeling of inadequacy, because you know there are people they would have chosen to be with right now- people you cannot possibly compare to- and disappointment in yourself at not being a Chieftain who knew his men well enough to know how to help them even in this small way. But mostly, it's an overwhelming sense of missing something, of loosing something you didn't know the value of, and had forgotten you even had.

After a while, you learn how to keep these feelings from controlling you, are able keep yourself from indulging in grief. But it's always a horrible thing to see a brave ranger fall.

_i_

_Thorongil_

Apples baking, sausages sizzling, a fast-paced dance playing; autumn has come to Rohan. It's the day of the Harvest Festival, and Meduseld is full to bursting with people- peasants and nobles alike- and tables full of food and drink.

Thorongil is a bit removed from it all, preferring to talk and laugh with his men. The crowd around him has grown considerably, probably as a result of it being passed around that, yes, he can laugh, and, no, he doesn't only talk about war. His men are shocked.

One young man in particular, the king's son, Théoden, Thorongil can't look at without laughing. Soon after he arrived in Rohan, the young man had decided Thorongil was the ideal warrior, and so in his mind graveness and seriousness were traits every good warrior Must Have_._ With every laugh, Thorongil knows, he's turning the poor boy's world upside down.

It's fitting, though, that the men discover this part of their captain's personality now, because autumn has always been the season when he feels most alive, when everything, even just walking outside, is a joy. Though it's possible today that "aliveness" has been helped but the fact that nearly as much of the newly harvested grain has been made into beer as bread. And it's delicious.

A cheer rises up, announcing the next round of food, which consists of birds of all kinds and sizes. They're carried in by an army of kitchen girls and servers, while everyone looks on and cheers them with all the enthusiasm of a nation welcoming its great heroes home.

One man is even more enthusiastic than the rest, and leaps onto a barrel, shouting for attention. His fame has grown considerably tonight, starting with an overwhelming drinking contest victory, followed by treating everyone to a song, and rounding it all off by talking to a pillar, fully convinced it was his wife- poor lady, whoever she is.

He holds up a mug to the servers, bellowing, "I toast you all! The wonderful cooks and the… servers and the… food! Hurrah!" The entire hall cheers and laughs, and, elated by his success, the man leaps off the barrel, right into the middle of the servers. Birds that never expected to fly again go soaring, showering everyone with their sauces. A few people shriek in outrage, but most people just roar with laughter, though none louder than Thorongil and his men; even Théoden joins in.

Autumn has come to Rohan indeed.

_i_

_Aragorn_

The city has fallen.

All is overrun by orcs and other creatures more evil and fearsome; men lie broken in the streets, or moaning and pleading for nonexistent help.

But the worst damage has been done to the city itself, once beautiful, now merely slag and broken rock smothering its bones. Far above, the tower burns, and about the pillar of smoke almost indistinguishable from the sky great winged horrors wheel in triumph. This is a city that will never be retaken.

The stone shows one horror after another, and he stands frozen; eyes locked on every image. With every scene all seems more hopeless, the fire that had been burning in his heart nearly quenched.

But with his last bit of determination, he steels himself for one final attempt. In takes the greatest effort of his life, but he manages to whisper, in a voice hoarse and cracked, "Long have I been hidden from you." With arms of stone, he draws the shining Flame from its jeweled sheath, and through either some power of its own or simply by its own solid metal it gives him new strength, and something like a smile crosses his face. "But no more."

So the contest begins.

_i_

_Elessar _

For years, I have tended the Tree, and my mothers before me. It is a position of great honor. Now, I must fell that which has stood for time out of mind.

It feels like I am killing my own child- this feeling made worse by how rough my comrades must be to get the roots to give up their claim on the earth. But when it's carried away, it's treated as it deserves, like a great king off to his final rest.

Nothing is left of the tree. For good or ill, its time has ended. The courtyard seems horribly empty, with nothing but an ugly, gaping mouth in the center.

Once it's gone, the king comes and kneels down in the earth. He digs his hands into it, runs it through his fingers, kneads in pockets of air -loosening it up so that new, fragile roots can push through. I may like this man yet.

The soil is rich, hopefully that will be enough. Many people don't know how temperamental young trees are; their stems are brittle and easily broken. Though this one is certainly strong, it still bears the weaknesses of its kind. It flourishes now, but come autumn it may be only a twig and a might-have-been.

The tree is planted; soon it will take hold and change all that is around it while the old sleeps, fading out of memory.

For good or ill, the tree has been felled, a new one planted. There is no way of knowing how it will grow; this all may prove a mistake, a brief joy and hope, but ultimately one lost. Or, this tree may grow and become beautiful, stronger than any before it. A tree a nation can prize, and swear loyalty to.

Only time will tell.

_i_

_And a bit of them all…_

The autumn of the Eldar wanes, and he says his final goodbye to the one he has long loved as father. He gets no long goodbye in the hills, only, "I am proud of you, my son." He has heard these words before.

_I am proud of you_. He's heard this many times through the years. Yet before they were always accompanied by a smile, an embrace, a laugh. He gets none of these now, but there is a glint of the eye and a fierceness of the face he has never seen before.

_My son._ These words have always made him sit up a little straighter, hold his head a little higher. But since hearing them, he's come to know the love of a father himself, knows it's something not lightly given. It's a love unique, powerful. How many times has he risked his life to protect one he loves as son?

"I am proud of you, my son." A simple sentence, yet as his surrogate father walks away for the last time it means more than ever before. He grieves the parting, but most of all feels pride and peace that at last he's accomplished what he had always striven to do.

Finally, he has proved himself worthy of a pride more than merely the pride of a father, but the kind given to a man who has truly done great deeds. Yet he is still his father's son, still has his love.

To the very end of his life, he will consider this the greatest honor he ever received.


End file.
